


Strade made you watch

by Magpiedance



Series: Endings - (BTD) [2]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Murder, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 08:08:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17280272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magpiedance/pseuds/Magpiedance
Summary: He kept you, and now he'll make you watch what he does next.





	Strade made you watch

**Author's Note:**

> Either an alternate ending, or a continuation of the 'He'll keep you forever' ending.

You can always tell when he is thinking about bringing another one home. He becomes extra attentive, can't keep his hands off of you, but doesn't use the knife. Like he can't trust himself not to get carried away.

He uses his teeth and nails instead to mark you. Bruise you. Bends you over the dinner table so suddenly that poor Ren squeaks and scrabbles to get out of the room, grateful that it isn't him.

After, he sits back down to finish his meal as though nothing at all had happened while his semen leaks down your thighs. He groans with pleasure and trails his fingers down alongside it's path, not disturbing the flow, just appreciating the view.

“Wunderschön,” he says.

And when he can't take it any more he will bring someone home.

Someone who looks like you.

Same height, same build, same age, same hair colour, skin colour. The more like you they look the more he takes his time hurting them.

He makes you watch. Sometimes he makes you hold the camera as he guts them. As he shows you all the things he wants to do to you. All the things he would do, if you could survive such a thing.

If you are quiet he makes you watch him fuck them, as the blood sputters out of their mouths and they choke on it. You try desperately not to cry because if he gets too excited he will push the limp carcass aside and pounce on you instead. He'll push his bloody fingers into your mouth as he pushes his cock into your fuckhole.

“This could be yours,” he'll say, about the blood, “That could be you, oh- oh- ficken-”

No matter how it goes, it always ends the same.

He takes the knife. He runs it over your skin. Slowly, so much calmer now.

He cuts you deep, deep enough to mark, and he has had more than enough practice to know. On your arms or on your legs. Somewhere that you can easily see. He maintains constant eye contact with you as he does it; that ever-present hungry smile haunting his features.

And then, as the fresh wound begins to weep, he makes you count.

You don't look at your body any more when you can help it but in this moment he makes you look. He makes you count, aloud, the marks. One for every soul slaughtered in your place. One for every person who died and suffered because they looked like you.

The more it upsets you the wilder his eyes get.

He kisses you full on the mouth and licks away your tears. It's the closest he ever feels to tender. He kisses the marks, kisses your arms, your legs, your feet and hands. He is so hungry for you, and though he himself is spent he lowers his face between your thighs and forces something akin to pleasure out of you. You're so helplessly starved for anything resembling true affection that you whine and moan and make all the noises he wants to hear, anything, anything, as long as he just won't stop. Doesn't stop until he finishes you. And when you are finished he kisses you one last time, eager to make you taste yourself in his mouth.

You _feel_ finished.

You feel half-crazed all the time. More than half, most of the time.

It takes all of your diminished reserves of energy just to keep yourself from making things worse. Your mind goes round and round in circles. _Don't think about that. Don't think about that._ It's no wonder that you cannot remember how you found yourself-

Here.

In the basement.

With the knife.

 _The_ knife.

Strade isn't here.

It's just you.

And the knife.

You and the knife and all these scars.

When Strade finds you his face falls in shock, if only for a fleeting moment.

Then he explodes with laughter like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.

You, bloodied, and covered in cuts. When they heal there will be no telling which scars were made by you and which were made by him. No more counting. No way to know how many lives you owe.

He takes the knife from your unresisting hand.

“Ah, meine Liebe,“ he says, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “This is why you're my favourite. After all this time, you still find ways to surprise me.“

He lifts you up then, like a bride, and takes you to his bed.

It doesn't occur to you until much later that you might have found a different use for the knife.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for google translate german!


End file.
